The Case of the Singular Key
by Sherlohn
Summary: It has been three years after the fall of Sherlock Holmes and John is struggling with his returned loneliness, unable to move from the flat he shared with his best friend. However, Sherlock is about to perform one more miracle, just for him. But as Sherlock and John begin to strip away the boundaries of their relationship, they're threatened by a whole new danger.
1. The Lonely Tangles

2nd July

Untitled

It would seem that my life is a constant repeat of love and loss as though the universe has to counteract my happiness with equal measures of sadness. Or maybe it's the other way round, though it hardly seems it. Harry tells me that "you wouldn't understand happiness without sadness". Maybe that's true, I don't know. All I do know is that you didn't have to die for me to appreciate the life you gave me. You didn't have to die for me to love you. You did not have to die at all. Living with you brought me a happiness that I didn't need the sadness to understand, thank you very much.

I was all caught up in lonely tangles when you found me, affected by the echoes of war. No family to speak of apart from a sister as broken as me, just in a very different way. I did miss the cruel reality of fighting for my country and fixing those who fell, it's true that I missed the splashes of colour it painted on my life, so sharp in their hue and so bold in their tone, and the pride that stems from fighting in war. But it was taken away from me in one sharp snatch and suddenly I was dropped into an everyday life of nothing and I didn't know what to do with myself or how to live or how to sleep throughout the night. It was a slow and steady march of greys and murky browns just whirring by, slipping time away from me.

Until you. You with your stupid cheekbones and piercing eyes and graceful stature; with your belstaff coat and straining shirts and blue scarf. Not to mention the cutting remarks and the showing off and the body parts in the kitchen. You introduced me to a battle of a different nature: living with Sherlock Holmes and _not _pulling your hair out. Or his.

We worked unexpectedly well together, we were golden, and you brought out my smiles and discovered my laugh and fixed my leg and taught me worth and how to _observe_ and what it is to be appreciated and you gave me the world in your limited time. You filled in my hollowed out life.

And then you left me to live like I did before you, just with added scars and the memories of your face to keep me up at night. You left me because no one could save you, because _I_ couldn't save you, and I hate that you thought that because I would have saved you, I would have done anything for you. I don't know where you are anymore or what happened to that gigantic spirit of yours that was so like a beacon to everyone else's candle or why I'm still tethered here, so very far away.

In the early days I used to sleep in your bed at night instead of my own, curling beneath the sheets that you curled under, because the room held your memory like a cupped breath that it couldn't release. It held you in your clutter, your inability to organise anything but clothes and thoughts. You were there in your violin with its rosewood sheen, your case files stuck through with a knife, your laptop precariously balanced on the desk, and your framed picture of the periodic table. I could close my eyes and picture you there amongst it all, your slim fingers weaving your spirit and personality into everything throughout the best years of my life and maybe the best years of yours. And then you would tell me, in your very Sherlock way, to _get out of my room, John, I need to go to my mind palace and I can't be occupied with the distraction you pose_ and I would smile until I opened my eyes to an empty room and a cold mattress beneath my desperate fingertips and I realised all over again. And with my heart wrung of tears, they kept spilling from my eyes.

My life had shattered into a thousand shards, the damage splintering beneath my skin like glass cutting through my veins, and all I knew was the loss I suffered and my hatred for what you did. The strength of it passed eventually, taking everything that made me _John _with it until I was just an empty shell, barely there. I felt so alone in this hollowed out life of mine.

But I lived.

I used to think you were out there still, that you would come back. _One more miracle, Sherlock. Please. For me. _But three years is a long time to think and to wait for the best friend who wasn't coming home and so I learnt that hope was futile and foolish because you were brilliant but dead and being dead is so very final.

And, although this is the worst the universe could throw at me, I'm still living and I have the occasional good day, nothing sparkling but nothing crushing either. I can even manage more than three hours sleep at night now and if there is one thing this whole ugly experience has taught me, it's that I can survive through the worst even if I never will be completely whole again. And that I love you. Not in any physical sense but with your mind and expressions and mannerisms. I think I have always loved you, Sherlock, and that you have always been a significant part of me, I just never realised before because it was something I so readily accepted, like the fact that I'm 5"7 or that I have blue eyes. I wasn't shocked to realise, I just… realised.

* * *

John gave up with the new blog entry knowing he would never post it, especially with that last part attached despite everyone suspecting that his relationship with Sherlock Holmes went deeper than "just friends" anyway. The strung together sentences in front of him held all of his inner thoughts and feelings like a map of his mind that could only fall on Sherlock's ears. But Sherlock wasn't here and John needed to pour out his thought processes, so after failing miserably at talking to the skull of Sherlock's supposed friend, this entry was formed only to be deleted.

The work day was going slow, something he hated because it allowed him too much time to think about things he did not want to think about. His therapist had suggested blogging again to overcome these moments but what was the point if all he could write about was what he wanted to forget? Sighing, he laid his head in his hands, willing the pain away, when his phone dinged beside him, signifying a text.

_Are you at work?_

_SH_

John stared at the text for a good ten minutes. It was cruel, a selfish prank to play, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat as the amount of times that Sherlock had sent a text like that flicked through his mind. He hated whoever this was for dredging up the memory that cut through his body like a knife through paper.

_Who is this?_

_JW_

_It's only 2:30, you must be. I'm at home, I will see you later._

_SH_

Pain bit through John's veins at the thought that someone would attempt to hurt or humiliate him like this and he immediately made to frame an angry response when another text came through.

_ And I hope you haven't messed with my sock index again._

_SH_

_This isn't funny. Who are you?_

_JW_

_Really John, your powers of deduction are astoundingly low. _

_SH_

_You have messed with my sock index! _

_SH_

_We are out of milk too. Pick some up on your way home._

_SH_

It couldn't be. It could not be. John had seen Sherlock jump and fall, he had seen his broken body lying dead on the ground. He had grieved and grieved and grieved and if Sherlock were still alive he would have known it. But these were texts only Sherlock would send and few people really knew Sherlock's character enough to replicate it…

"Sarah!" John shouted, jumping out of his chair. He was going home.


	2. The Back Patting Scenario

John argued with himself all the way back to the flat. _It must be, but it can't it be, it must be, but it can't be_. The taxi ride was almost unbearably slow; he shifted in his seat constantly as new pulses of electric disbelief shocked him. He couldn't accurately describe the feeling that pumped through his body, it was mostly a blending of anticipation and fear and shock and confusion all jumbled up in one big heap. They made it though and he threw the money at the driver, shouting "keep the change" over his shoulder, before thumping up the steps to 221B.

Where he found that he couldn't enter.

John reached out, fingers hovering over the doorknob. His hand was shaking, he could see the tremor that buzzed through his fingers because the answer lay just behind this door. And yet he couldn't open it because he was scared, scared of the probable disappointment that would crush him where he stood. And he had been crushed more than enough these past years. He stared at his hand, willing the fingers to just seize the doorknob, when someone opened the door from inside.

And there, on the other side of the door frame, was Sherlock. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes in his purple shirt and trademark suit and sculpted face all lit up like a damn Christmas tree. John stared at Sherlock as waves of shock drenched him over and over again, his system ready to shut down with it. Here was the man he had almost broken himself trying to picture back into existence, the man he had longed for and wished for unreservedly for three straight years. The pulse hammered at his neck as anger at the man who had caused all these feelings shot through his body and he pulled his left hand into a fist. Sherlock noticed the growing tension in John's muscles immediately and backed up a step, the smile dropping from his lips between one second and the next. "Now, John, let's just –" he started, his distinctive voice deeply familiar to John's ears.

"Oh, I don't think so." He snarled, slamming a fist against Sherlock's jaw.

John didn't consider any of his actions after that, throwing a few more punches to Sherlock's unresisting figure until his anger abated and ebbed away, leaving him breathless and merely stunned. Sherlock held a hand to his jaw where John's most vicious punch had landed, commenting on the brilliant execution or something, John didn't know, he wasn't listening to the individual words, just the velvet baritone voice that made them up.

Sherlock eventually fell into silence and looked at John with piercingly sad eyes, who stared right back without a clue of what expression painted his own face. John thought of a million things to say and to ask, the most important being _how_ or _why_, and yet all his mouth could form was one pitiful statement of three tiny words. "You left me."

"I know." Sherlock confirmed quietly.

"And all of this time…"

"I know."

The light in John's eyes turned suddenly sharp as spurts of anger coursed back into his system because Sherlock spoke so calmly, so easily, that it hurt. "No, you don't know anything. I _suffered, _Sherlock, I suffered so much because of you!"

"Believe it or not I do have some knowledge of how that feels, John."

"No," John rapidly shook his head, "no, I don't think you do because if you did, you wouldn't have left me here, you wouldn't have pushed me into all of that loss! You don't realise how much I struggled without you, I…"

"John, you don't understand, I did it for you. It was always for you!"

"For me? What kind of result was that for me?" John laughed humourlessly, mechanically, "I thought you were _dead_, Sherlock! Do you even understand that?"

"Are you seriously asking me if I understand something?"

"Yes, I am. Because you don't seem to have grasped the fact that _I thought you were dead_. I thought your body was rotting away in the ground. I thought I'd never see you again!"

"John –"

"And then you come back here after _three years_ telling me off for messing with your damn sock index like that's the only thing you can conceivably care about when I – when I –" silent tears ran in rivers down John's face, all his anger and exhaustion and shock pulling him apart inside. Sherlock watched him, his only friend left in the entire world, as John stood in the middle of their living room looking like a man dejected and helpless, crying in a way Sherlock had never seen him cry before.

"John," Sherlock whispered, swallowing loudly in the sudden quiet, "please don't." But John didn't stop, he couldn't. Everything was too much in that moment and he was exhausted and _hurt_ because nothing made sense yet everything made sense all at the same time.

"John," Sherlock began again, "John, I'm going to get you some –" but his speech was cut off again as John stumbled towards him, blind through his tears and dizzy with emotion, careening straight into his chest where he grabbed fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt and sobbed into his shoulder. "I missed you so much," he said, the words barely legible. Sherlock, quite unsure of what to do, raised his arms slightly until they encircled John without actually touching him before patting him awkwardly on the back. Sherlock noted and confirmed to himself that physical comfort was not something that came naturally to him but it did seem to be comforting John so he continued with the awkward back patting scenario until John literally told him to stop because he was "not a pet, Sherlock."

"Oh. Sorry." Sherlock answered, stepping back and clasping his hands behind his back, a mannerism he had picked up from John. "Comfort in the physical sense is a blank area for me."

"I'm… sorry." John replied, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I just…"

"It's quite alright. Living in such a state of grief can dislodge a person from their head and wire them too closely to their hearts. I understand."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock smiled, sadness tugging on the corners of his lips, because of course he understood. He understood a lot more about emotion than he would lead people to believe and he especially understood after three years of living without John, three years of knowing John would suffer without anything that he could do to stop it. Three years before he gave up and came back.

"Shall I… uh… shall I make you something… tea?" Sherlock, in a very uncharacteristic manner, stumbled over his words, watching as John fell heavily onto the sofa.

"Please." John answered, scrutinizing the other man with his eyes. Apart from the loss of words just there, Sherlock seemed utterly and completely composed and John didn't know what to make of that when he himself was so broken over this situation. But then watching the smile that burst onto Sherlock's face, he realised that he was happy, properly_ happy_, for the first time in years and it all depended upon the man in front of him.

"You didn't bring the milk did you?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"I text you. We're out of milk."

"Oh," John said quietly, he smiled slowly and then laughed. _He was laughing! _It shocked him but he couldn't stop, the rich sound pervading the flat. Sherlock grinned in response, feeling the full impact of how much he had missed this, making John laugh like this. "I'll go and get some," he said, bounding to the door.

"Hey, Sherlock," John piped up, twisting his hands together, "don't take three years this time, yeah?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly stay away from you, John." He replied, being hasty and graceful at the same time as he ran down the stairs.


	3. The Glittering Edge

Sherlock strode quickly down the street, keeping his head down. The hype over his "death" had long since died down by now but there was still always that chance that people would recognise him, especially in the middle of London, meaning he needed to keep a low profile. He had changed into jeans and a lightweight jacket closer in similarity to John's coat than his own and, seeing as it was summer, added sunglasses and a cap bearing the words "Team GB" pulled down as low as possible. Blending in was easy when everyone was caught up in the hype of the summer Olympics, probably because the event was being held in London more than anything else, and everyone seemed to own some form of "Team GB" memorabilia or clothing. Still, he was running the risk of recognition, something that had to be avoided for now.

All this to buy milk for John's tea, he thought. Sherlock shook his head at his own need to please this particular man and yet he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming desire to shield him from the world, even at his own risk. He had, after all, exposed John to the pain of grief; John who, unlike himself, was very vulnerable to these feelings and he vowed that he would never feel any pain by Sherlock's own hand ever again. But that would mean keeping secrets and Sherlock had a secret that he could not conceal from John for long because it simply wouldn't be fair. That, however, did not mean he wouldn't try.

He ducked into a shady alleyway as his phone beeped at him. He knew it was Mycroft before he looked at the screen. His brother annoyingly wouldn't leave him alone whenever he ventured outside of the Diogenes Club where Mycroft had so very kindly let him live for the past few months. He supposed it was his own fault, having asked Mycroft to keep him away from John and he took this job very seriously. It wasn't that Sherlock doubted his own persistence and stability that he had asked Mycroft to do it, it was merely precaution and he was all for precaution where John's safety was concerned. That, however, had changed since his _problem _had occurred and just spying on John wasn't enough anymore.

Sherlock smirked at Mycroft's text.

_Tell me you are not with John, Sherlock Holmes._

_MH_

_I am not with John._

_SH_

_Does he know you are alive?_

_MH_

_Depends. What do you want?_

_SH_

_Did you inform him of your problem? _

_MH_

_No._

_SH_

INCOMING CALL

MYCROFT HOLMES

Sherlock sighed, contemplating cutting off the call, but he knew from experience that Mycroft would not give up and he would end up in a car with Anthea before long, or worse, John would and he didn't like to think about where that would go. He answered to Mycroft's swift and cutting voice.

"Why have you not told him?"

"I've put him through too much already. It would benefit no one."

"Feeling sentimental, Sherlock?"

"No, but John is."

"I strongly advise that you tell him, he would work it out eventually anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure he can work it out by tomorrow. That, however, doesn't mean I won't attempt to prevent the inevitable."

"Sherlock–"

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

_Oh, and I hope the diet improves. Despite your best efforts, I did notice the extra three pounds._

_SH_

_Two._

_MH_

_It was three._

_SH_

Sherlock smiled to himself as he pocketed his phone, knowing full well that Mycroft wouldn't reply to his goading. He slipped away from the alleyway and continued his stride towards the closest unfamiliar newsagents as the sunlight dripped down in scalding drops.

* * *

John made dinner for two that night, reminded of all the times in the first few weeks of living without Sherlock that he made twice as much by accident and the break downs that had followed suit. Similarly, he remembered always pulling two mugs from the cupboard when making tea and buying the particular brand of shampoo that Sherlock liked as well as his own and scouring the newspaper for cases to stem the constant flow of Sherlock's boredom. All of these things that all ended with the imminent break down. But now, now he needed to get back into those habits and the thought made him smile, no matter the seed of anger he still felt.

They ate together on the sofa that first day, each wanting to be close but neither wanting to say so. Sherlock devoured his food, even going so far as to bend over the plate, his dark curls falling across his forehead. John looked at him, really looked, and noticed how much thinner he was, how his already sharp cheekbones almost cut through his paper white skin.

"Sherlock," he enquired, "when was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock screwed up his nose in thought. Food was never something he paid attention to and so he never kept a record of his eating habits. During his absence, he had spent much of his time alone so there was no one there to tell him when to eat or to make him meals. "I don't know. I must have deleted the memory." He said around a mouthful of pasta.

"You can't remember the last time you ate?" John was appalled, "Sherlock! What's wrong with you? Why didn't you eat?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, wondering exactly what the root of his eating problem was. He had always said that he didn't eat on the job because he simply did not have the time and energy to waste on digestion but he wasn't using his brain for in depth thinking 24/7. So he looked John in the eye and told him the truth as he knew it. "You were never there to remind me."

John paused in lifting his fork and laid it lightly onto the plate instead. Sherlock's eyes, without the glittering edge to them, were warm and held a forming star in their hue. Beautiful in his pale face, they shocked the truth of Sherlock's need for him into John.

"You mean you were never here for me to remind you." John's voice painfully betrayed his hurting and even though he forced the feeling from his face, Sherlock still detected the subtle single quiver of his bottom lip, a tiny yet voluminous gesture.

"John, I really am sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix much, Sherlock." John almost lost his words to the lump in his throat as he spoke and tears threatened to spill over. He dropped his plate on the coffee table with a clatter and stood up, suddenly needing to get out. Sherlock said nothing as John strode out of the flat, fleeing down the stairs. He heard the distant slam of the door closing downstairs and sat quietly in the empty room with his plate still awkwardly balanced on his lap, suddenly losing his appetite.


	4. The Conductor of Light

**A/N I realise that it has been a whole month since I last updated this story and for that I profusely apologise! School seems to be annoyingly good at getting in the way of my fun. I've changed the name of the story from 'We Were Golden' to 'The Case of the Singular Key', so if you've gotten a notification and wondering why the hell you followed a story you can't remember following, that will be why! Hopefully the next chapter will be up a lot faster than this one took.**

* * *

It was two 'o' clock the next morning when John staggered up the steps to his flat. After leaving last night, he had wandered mindlessly until stumbling across a pub called "The Red Mermaid". A woman with dyed blonde hair and scarlet lips had eyed him up across the bar but he hadn't noticed the attention until she slipped a napkin into his hand as she left, a mobile number scrawled across the dog-eared paper. He used it to blow his nose, knowing Sherlock would have laughed.

He pushed on the door handle several times, frustrated that it refused to open for him, until his drink addled brain realised that it was _pull _not _push_ and he eventually tripped into the room. Sherlock still sat on the sofa, back ram-rod straight, with a plate of cold food on his lap. There was a collected air of solemnity about him and his eyes, as he stared at the opposite wall, were gravely earnest. "Have you calmed down now?" He asked, voice stronger and more assured than he looked. John answered by falling heavily onto the sofa alongside him and Sherlock placed the plate onto the coffee table with his usual careful precision, turning to the man beside him.

"How did you do it?" John asked suddenly.

Sherlock didn't answer right away, considering the best path on which to convey the facts to a drunken John. "A simple matter with a lot of exacting details."

"Like what?"

"Cutting off the blood flow to the wrist that you would check for a pulse, creating a sequence of obstacles in your way, and a lot of fake blood. Homeless network. Molly. Moriarty's body is buried in my grave, made for a tidy finish."

John pushed through the fuzziness that clouded his brain to really think over these words, to remember them. His mind flew to the last statement and he mulled it over, conjuring up every memory of sitting by Sherlock's grave, of grieving and grieving and talking to the body beneath the ground, believing it to be his best friend's. He thought of the tears shed over that patch of dirt, of the hours and days and weeks of raw emotion that it had seen. But it was never the body of his friend down there; it was always the body of his friend's enemy and of his near murderer.

He felt he could positively strangle Sherlock right then and there.

"John? Are you angry? You're angry aren't you? God knows why, you _asked_."

John, with, not anger exactly, but disbelief, spoke. "So all this time it's been Moriarty? Every word I said to you was never to you? _Moriarty_." He passed a hand over his face, pushing down a sick feeling that may well have been caused by the drink.

"You spoke to me when you thought I was dead?"

"Of _course_–" John started brashly before lowering his voice with his eyes, "I was alone and you were dead, who else was I supposed to talk to?"

"What did you say when you were there?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I – I don't – stop asking me."

"I only asked you once."

"Can't remember, don't know."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Don't ever drink again, John, it renders you idiotic."

John's head was foggy again. He couldn't distinguish between the thoughts in his head and the thoughts in his mouth. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he was speaking. Drunkenness and fatigue hammered down on his whole body and he decided that he was going to either fall over or fall asleep or both in one go. He ended up falling sideways onto Sherlock's shoulder where he shut his eyes and, after several moments, slurred his speech. "Don't leave me again, Sherl – love you."

"I know." Sherlock smiled and tangled his fingers with John's own, fully knowing that only one of them would remember this in the morning.

* * *

John woke up that morning in his bedroom. He sat up in bed, still fully clothed, with no recollection of getting there the night before. His first instinct was to think that someone had put him there, meaning Sherlock, but Sherlock would never carry John to bed; his emotional barriers would always get in the way. Still, the thought gave him a bottomless feeling in his stomach and not in a bad way. He shook his head and very quickly realised that mistake, with a strangled cry he pushed his fingers against his pounding forehead.

"Glass of water?" Came a voice from the doorway. John tiredly squinted at Sherlock, his slim frame outlined by the light behind him like a halo, and cocked his head at the angelic beauty. He almost laughed imagining Sherlock's response to being compared to an angel.

"What?" Sherlock asked looking slightly perturbed, his brow corrugated.

"Nothing," John replied, "but I'll have the water, thank you."

Sherlock moved into the room and John noticed the grace with which he moved, the singular grace he had missed over the years. He took the cold glass with some tablets from Sherlock and their fingers brushed one another, a touch they were both acutely aware of with a prickling of nerves.

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat, "come down when you're ready, preferably right now, I have something to show you."

John watched as he left, flicking on the light on his way out, and wondered nervously if Sherlock had deduced the strength of his feelings because if there was one thing John was now sure of, it was that he was wholly in love with his best friend.

* * *

John, to Sherlock's annoyance, did _not_ come downstairs straightaway. He took precisely eleven minutes and forty three seconds to navigate his way to the living room. During that time Sherlock had made a plate of beans on toast and two cups of tea and made up two places at the table so that they might enjoy breakfast together and it was all just waiting for John right there and getting colder and he still took eleven minutes and forty three seconds to walk down a set of stairs.

Sherlock thought of John as he had seen him this morning with his face all scrunched up in tiredness and his hair all fluffy and sticking out in the wrong directions. It stirred feelings of endearment that he decisively didn't want to feel and yet there they were, tugging the corners of his mouth into a smile that he couldn't push down. He had had the glass waiting by the sink all morning, waiting for John to wake up so he could be there with a glass of water and some headache tablets right away. After all, his John needed looking after right now and who else was going to do it?

He jolted further upright in his chair at the table. Since when had John become specifically _his _John? He was still working through the answer to that question when John made his appearance.

"What's this?" He asked, making to sit down at his appointed place.

"John, please, don't ask questions with such obvious answers."

John shot him a look before regarding his breakfast with no small measure of enthusiasm. "You're lucky I don't lose my appetite with a hangover. I would say thank you but I have a feeling it would go unappreciated."

"Quite the contrary, I enjoy acknowledgement of my graciousness."

"In that case you should be gracious more often."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unsure if John was joking or not. John was smiling at him so he assumed it was the former and all suspicion cleared from his face in an instant in order to return the smile. The lingering look lasted for longer than was maybe necessary and when John looked away Sherlock studied his faintly abashed features with a little anxiety. Had he upset John? He didn't know almost as much he didn't understand what his feelings were doing. He discreetly measured his own pulse rate beneath the table. A few seconds told him it was definitely heightened. He considered this interesting development as one for later experimentation.

John was practically inhaling his food so he obviously hadn't eaten at the pub after skipping last night's dinner; Sherlock smiled at how efficient he was at this caring lark and reached across the table to drag the newspaper in front of him. Flipping through to the third page, he waited for John to finish eating before spinning the paper around and pointing out a small article of seemingly no importance at the top of the page.

_Colonel Sebastian Moran, a long serving military man in the British army, has returned home to his place of residence in England after being wounded in action whilst serving in Afghanistan. His injuries, both of physicality and mentality, are believed to be fatal to his sustained military career and his family have spoken out about his possible early retirement in light of these recent events._

_Such was the story a week ago today. Since then Mr Moran has disappeared from the home he recently shared with his sister Miss Elsie Moran, in distinctly odd circumstances. _

_Elsie Moran describes her brother as being of a tall and slim frame with deep black hair and sharply defined features. On the day of his disappearance, he wore a distinctive crimson t-shirt and a pair of light blue jeans with three slashes ripped across the left knee._

_If anyone has any information regarding the disappearance of Mr Sebastian Moran, please make contact at…_

"Looking into taking a case?" John asked, sipping lightly at his tea.

"In a sense, yes. Do you notice anything odd about this article?"

"You tell me. Believe it or not, I've missed your deductions." Sherlock smiled swiftly at John's reply, leaning forwards so as to move his fingers deftly over the surface of the newspaper in pointing out various aspects. "First of all there is the nature of the article itself. A thousand people disappear up and down the country every week and yet no newspaper article of this length are given to them, showing that this man is either someone important or someone with a wealthy family, and this latter point is further pressed by the placing of the article on the third page. It is by no means an important editorial in comparison to other stories it has to offer and yet it has found its way to the near front of the paper. At this point we would be continuing with the idea of wealth in the family, however, I know for a fact that this man does not have a sister by the name of Elsie. In fact, he does not have a sister at all. Now, what does that tell us? That the company has printed an article given to them without investigating into the matter. In this case, we can assume that a reporter for the company has lied and whether it is a deliberate untruth or not is another matter. It also appears to go into little or no depth at all in aiding the general public to locate this Mr Moran, the whereabouts of the house he resides in is extremely vague and there isn't even a supplied photo to go by. This is of importance since it will allow us to determine whether or not this reporter is in league with Sebastian Moran. You will notice that they don't give their name and, since reporters love a bit of self-promotion, it's looking suspicious isn't it?"

"Sebastian Moran helped fabricate an article detailing his own disappearance?"

"Apparently so. It is, I assume, a message to someone. What the message is, I haven't the foggiest so far."

"You said that he most definitely did not have a sister. You know this man then?"

"Oh, I know exactly who this man is." Sherlock pushed his fingers together and his eyes were glazed over. John left him to it, recognising these traits as Sherlock being in deep thought. Finishing his tea, he pushed up from the table and announced his plans to have a shower and a shave. Sherlock just muttered incoherently to himself with a thousand expressions flitting across his face. John sighed but smiled affectionately, having missed Sherlock and all his quirks and mannerisms. He resisted the urge to brush his fingertips across the other man's face or tweak his hair and walked with a spring in his step to the bathroom.

* * *

When John returned, hair dripping, he cautiously took his seat opposite where Sherlock hadn't moved. He was reading the newspaper in a rather disgruntled fashion. Evidently his mind palace had failed him for the time being. John dithered over speaking for some seconds before deciding to just take the plunge.

"What happened last night? I can't really remember much."

Sherlock dropped the paper onto the table and leant backwards, dressing gown slipping off one shoulder. "What _do _you remember?"

"Fragments of bits and pieces. Drinking, drinking a lot, and a woman. I think she had blonde hair, I'm not entirely sure. I remember seeing you when I came in and I remember speaking to you a little, what was said I don't know. Falling asleep on the sofa then waking up in bed," John screwed up his face in thought, "did I…"

"Did you what?" Sherlock asked, innocence projected all over his face.

"Never mind." John replied noncommittally, he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had done or said something worthy of regret, something that may have given away his feelings. But surely he couldn't have. Sherlock would have run a mile from any confession of sentimentality yet he looked the same as he always had and a twist of his features said that he was perhaps even happier.

At the root of it, John wasn't sure whether he was glad or disappointed that nothing had happened between them. "So?"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"What happened?"

"Oh," Sherlock gave a pretty rapid coverage of events, "you came home very intoxicated which, if I might say, you should never do again. We didn't really speak, it was more you talking at me incomprehensibly and then you fell asleep on the sofa before going upstairs. End of story." He yawned as if to accentuate just how bland the night had been.

Unsure as to why he had just lied to John, Sherlock probed his mind to find out. It was a little odd examining his own emotions, especially when they were as knotted up as these ones. But perhaps he would be able to tell John the truth of it once he had untangled them all, then he could process what John was feeling too.

Love was a tricky trap to fall into. There was so much overpowering uncertainty to it all and people generally came out the worse for it, but with John it felt all reversed. He wasn't so certain about anybody as he was John and being back at home with him had given Sherlock the best feeling he'd so far experienced. He had missed his companion whilst he was away but coming home again had opened his eyes to how absolutely dark his life had been without his blogger, his little conductor of light by his side.

In fact, Sherlock found that he wanted more than anything to just envelop John in his arms and sob on his shoulder with the overwhelming relief to be back. Just for a little while he wanted to stop being Sherlock Holmes the hardened detective, and be Sherlock Holmes the comforted best friend. The feeling scared him in a good way, like almost falling backwards off a chair before you realise that you're really very safe. "Actually, John," he continued before he even knew what was happening, "you did–"

And then, of all moments, Mycroft walked in. Sherlock pulled an exasperated face at John, who laughed and took the newspaper that Sherlock offered him, having found a story he knew John would like.

"Mycroft." John said by way of introduction, a little frostily too. "Wait," he looked with disbelief at Sherlock, "Mycroft!? Mycroft knew?"

"I had to stay somewhere for the past year, John," Sherlock answered levelly, "and anyway, it was lately the best option available. Mycroft allowed me a suite at the Diogenes Club rent free and it was near to–"

"You've been in central London for a whole year?"

"I was after Moriarty's comrades. I've had trouble tracking the last one so, yes, I've stayed in London until his appearance. I couldn't see you for fear of putting you in danger whilst it was going on but I could at least keep an eye on you in the meantime."

John's hardened expression softened despite the spark still lingering in his eye. Mycroft stood over them both and very obviously cleared his throat. John gave him a look that was positively black and Sherlock looked questioningly between the two of them.

"John and I had a… disagreement." Mycroft said in answer, raising one eyebrow, which gave him a look of high impatience. He raised a hand to his left cheekbone for a moment, ensconced in the memory of John's anger.

"A continuing disagreement." John retorted, shaking the newspaper to straighten the sheets. Sherlock immediately deduced from Mycroft's hand against his face, John's track record with violence, and their hostile behaviour that John had thrown a fist to Mycroft's cheek and, very probably, other places too. He threw a proud smile to his best friend, who smiled back over the top of the newspaper.

"Yes, well," Mycroft continued, "I hope this disagreement can be terminated now that we are back to normal."

"You sold out your own brother. That's taking the ice man persona a little _too _far, don't you think?"

"Not at all."

John sighed in frustration.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock interposed.

"Being deliberately slow, Sherlock? You know why I'm here."

"Yes, and it's not going to happen so you can go home."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said, as though he were talking to a child.

"Now is not the time to play big brother, Mycroft. Go. Home."

"What's going on?" John asked, sensing a pivotal moment.

Mycroft looked resolutely at John. "John–"

"Don't you _dare_." Sherlock's voice cracked like a whip and John almost flinched, despite it not being aimed at him.

"John," Mycroft continued, "Sherlock has kept something back from you."

"_Mycroft!_" Sherlock's chair scraped harshly backwards as he stood, his whole body rigidly straight. His eyes were fixed upon his brother.

"I'm telling you because I want you to look after him, John."

"I will _not _tell you again, Mycroft!"

John looked confusedly between the two brothers. Sherlock was like a tightly coiled spring, he looked at Mycroft like a predator looks at his prey.

"Sherlock is–" Mycroft managed before Sherlock rushed at him, almost trying to wrestle him from the room. The sight would have been comical to John if the situation did not seem so bad. Mycroft tried to hold Sherlock off by pushing his umbrella lengthways across his younger brother's chest and Sherlock tried to force his hand over Mycroft's mouth like a child.

John had never seen anything like it.

Mycroft spoke around the obstruction. "Terminally ill." He grunted.

Sherlock stepped backwards immediately, flinging his gaze to John fearfully, who sat blinking for a few moments just trying to process what he had heard. Disbelief rung through John's body dully, a broken bell battering at his insides, and it struck him dimly that Sherlock wasn't denying what was said.

_It would seem that my life is a constant repeat of love and loss as though the universe has to counteract my happiness with equal measures of sadness. _

"Sherlock?" He asked in a sort of strangled voice, it sounded like a cry for help to his own ears. Sherlock recognised the comfort he needed to give to his priority and knelt beside John, who followed him with his terrified eyes. He brushed his fingers over John's, where he was still clutching the newspaper, suddenly not caring that his brother was there to see it because, no matter what he would think later, in this instant caring _was _an advantage.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock murmured, standing again and practically stabbing Mycroft with the sharpness of his eyes before marching off to very roughly escort him outside, spitting out "you've _really _done it now, Mycroft."


	5. The Empty Space

Sherlock swept down the stairs like a barely contained hurricane, his angular features somehow even more austere than usual when confronted with his elder brother. Mycroft followed with all the grace he could muster after such a show of brotherly affection in the presence of a third party. He didn't regret his actions one jot though. Sherlock was his little brother and would always be his little brother, whether he was a five year old parading around in an eye patch with a foam sword, or a thirty year old realist with no apparent conscience. Having said that, Sherlock seemed to be rapidly deviating from his sociopathic tendencies since meeting Dr Watson, and the protective walls he had built around his heart were showing fractures in their stonework. Mycroft disapproved but at least Sherlock would let John take good care of him in his illness.

In the hallway, Sherlock whirled around with an accusatory expression. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Dear me, brother, since when have you been so affected by _emotion?_"

"Anger is hardly a surprising reaction to your presence. You infect the air that you breathe." Sherlock spat out his words.

"I understand why you're upset–"

"No, you don't."

"– but John had to know. If you wouldn't let me be of any help to you, then someone else had to be trusted with this information. Whatever has happened between us, I am not letting you give up when there is someone who – who loves you right there and who wants to assist you."

Sherlock practically growled with exasperation. It was never Mycroft's place to tell John anything of this magnitude whether John loved him or not. If anything, John's feelings for Sherlock should have stopped Mycroft, but then again he didn't trust his brother to understand their relationship when he didn't understand it himself. He should probably broach that subject with John but, in truth, he felt a little scared about that conversation. Actually no, scratch that. He felt a lot scared about that conversation.

"Looks like some fascinating internal monologue going on in there, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It is thoroughly fascinating. Unfortunately though, no one shares my intellectual capacity quite enough to really appreciate my inner thoughts and brainwork."

Mycroft looked about to retort when there issued a scream from down the hall and both very startled men looked in the direction from whence it came. Mrs Hudson had evidently been leaving her flat when she had stopped dead still, her whole body temporarily paralysed before she began to shake.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked, taking a second to remember that he hadn't yet informed her of his return.

"Sher – Sherlock? Is that? Wha – oh, my _God_." Looking like she was about to faint, she surged forwards and clasped onto his sleeve so hard the skin of her fingertips turned white with the pressure.

"Well, I'd better be going then." Mycroft, with a smile at Mrs Hudson, hurriedly left. Sherlock was disappointed since he didn't have time to make an insulting comment as a goodbye. He had a good one about Mycroft's long suffering weight problem as well. "Mrs Hudson!" He said with forced enthusiasm instead, leading her back into her flat. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"

* * *

John could feel the downward spiral and the empty space that haunted all of his dreams since Sherlock's "death". Horrible dreams of being battered and battered into loneliness, falling and falling into the emptiness where arms clad in a Belstaff coat should always catch him but never did because those arms were a part of a body that had fallen itself. And then he would lie there beside Sherlock's dead body, unable to die himself, to let go of the pain that held him there, like a wrecking ball of grief had him pinned to the ground. He pressed his fingers against his forehead now, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes to stem the imminent flow of tears.

Eventually, he pushed himself up to peer down the stairs. Sherlock and Mycroft had disappeared. John bit back a string of swear words, suddenly angered that Sherlock would just take off immediately after a bomb like this had been dropped on his head. It was likely that he would be gone for a while; Sherlock apparently had a habit of leaving for lengthy amounts of time.

John had a million questions to ask and a million acts of comfort to give but the recipient wasn't there to answer or receive and he didn't know what to do with himself for the time being. Needing _something _to do, he ended up taking his therapist's advice again and writing out what he felt as though he were speaking to Sherlock.

_When you were gone, I had nightmares. Horrible nightmares. I would sleep in tiny bursts…_

* * *

"Have you seen John yet?" Mrs Hudson asked suddenly but gently. Sherlock sat opposite her at her tiny kitchen table, hands cupped around a cup of tea.

"Yes. You, John and Mycroft are the only people who know of my being alive."

"How did he take it?"

"He punched me, cried and then hugged me."

Mrs Hudson smiled at Sherlock's almost mystified expression as he mentioned hugging. "I hope you hugged him back."

"I did. Well, I tried."

"You tried?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. "I think I have upset him even further though."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter. After everything, I'm not sure if he even likes me anymore." He dropped his eyes to the table, silently cursing the difficult nature of _feelings_.

"Sherlock, I very highly doubt that. John loves you and you don't just… switch love off."

"Oh, believe me, I know you can't."

"Why don't you buy him something? Say sorry with a present?"

"Is that what people do when apologising? Say sorry with a present?"

"Everyone likes presents," Mrs Hudson said with a bright smile, "and you know John's mind like your own. I'm sure you can think of something."

Sherlock sifted through John's character in his mind palace. There was a lot to get through since he apparently saved everything about John that he could possibly collect; he made a mental note to clean up the clutter later, he didn't really know how to go about it though since every scrap was a gem. But for now, he was figuring out John's likes. "What does John like?" He mused. "John likes… jumpers and strawberry jam and expensive watches and slightly oversized pyjamas and mystery novels and aloe vera hand wash and–"

"Alright, Sherlock, okay!" Mrs Hudson burst out. "See, now you just have to pick one. Why don't you buy him a nice jumper?"

"Right then, a jumper it is. You're the expert after all!" Sherlock smiled and, hugging his landlady goodbye, left in search of a clothes shop.

* * *

Slightly to the left and opposite 221B Baker Street, a man stood in an almost hidden alleyway. Shadows threaded around his figure, disguising his startling porcelain skin and raven black hair as he carefully watched Sherlock Holmes leave his flat and traverse the streets until he disappeared around the corner. He licked his lips, a habitual gesture, and relished thoughts of shooting the man where he passed but dismissed them. He had other plans for the consulting detective and, with a lion's smile, he stepped into the bleeding light of Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock found that he did not possess any sense of fashion when it came to woollen jumpers and, having stared at a whole rack of them for bordering on an hour, he came away with a deep blue one threaded through with silver because it reminded him of his scarf and John had once complimented his scarf. That and the slightly more embarrassing reason of it matching the colour of John's eyes. If John asked, it was definitely just the scarf thing though. Overall, he felt the trip had been a success and he came home ready to explain to John everything that had led to this point in time.

He sprinted up the stairs and burst through the door with sunshine in his eyes and smile. John's laptop was open on the table but there was no John tapping at the keys, there was no John anywhere. Silence and impatience tugged the sunshine from Sherlock's expression and he dropped his shopping bag on his armchair. Where would John possibly go? And why leave his laptop on? Sherlock moved a finger across the track pad, lighting the screen. John had been gone long enough for the laptop to lock itself; he typed in the painfully obvious password – he would have to warn John about that one day – and the last activity showed up. It seemed to be some kind an unfinished entry not unlike those on John's blog, just much more personal and written as though speaking to Sherlock himself. Frowning, Sherlock read it through.

_When you were gone, I had nightmares. Horrible nightmares. I would sleep in tiny bursts, unable to do more than that, and awake on a tear soaked pillow. I couldn't remember any dream other than the nightmare, so empty but so full all at the same time. You probably don't understand what I mean by that but I can't explain it in any other way so you will just have to try. Sometimes the nightmare attacked during the day, crippling me where I stood. I stopped going out in public. I stopped trying to sleep. I almost stopped eating too. It's not your fault and I don't blame you but I wish you had come back sooner. Anyway, I think those feelings and that nightmare have come rushing back in the space of five minutes since I learned that you were doomed to be taken from me _again_. For real this time. I'm damaged and broken and I so desperately want to be okay but I'm not. I dream that I'm falling and you're supposed to catch me but you never do because you're dead already from your own fall and I'm lying beside your dead body, forever unable to reach you. You never catch me when I fall and I wish you wou_

Sherlock sank in his chair, pressing a fist to his tightly pressed lips. Why did John never say these things to him? John was the one person he wanted most desperately to be happy but he was the one person who was desperately _un_happy.

And then his blood ran cold with fear as letters further down the page caught his eye.

_Vatigfgdx camnjceo _

John was obviously typing "Vatican cameos", their code word for danger. It looked as though he had either typed it hurriedly or been dragged away from the keyboard as he tried. The second notion seemed more likely since he had started off accurately. He was pulled from the left, towards the door, judging by the caps lock key having been pushed (indicated by the light on the key itself) and the added random letters being on the left side of the keyboard. It told of a struggle, one that John had fought and failed.

Sherlock cut himself up inside knowing that he had been warned of this, of danger to John. He should have just damn well told him instead of guarding it as a secret to never be told. A part of him had not wanted to acknowledge it in the hopes that it had been an empty threat but evidently it hadn't and he hated the man that did it. He _hated _Sebastian Moran.

Grabbing his phone, Sherlock sent a text to John as a reassurance that he was coming for him, praying that, wherever John was, he would receive it. The message he sent was a little different than intended but he felt that it served his purposes just as well.

_I will always catch you when you fall. _

* * *

**A/N Please do let me know what you think, good or bad! I love reviews, they encourage me to keep going with this. Thank you to the lovely people who have written reviews already!**


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